Minou.

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Gramps!

My family all came back for Christmas.

I have not been taking nearly enough photos.

No photos could have captured the loud neighing to which everyone awoke on Christmas morning.

And then we went outside.

It was cold.

Akiva spent a good deal of time fitting delightfully through Doorway Dan.

Then they talked about cars and stuff as they walked down the road together.

Ari was exceptionally cold.

She came up with the brilliant idea of using a baby as a wind-block.

“I like winter,” says Iris. “Except the part about putting on so much clothing.”

She made sure her little brother made it home safely.

Iris & Akiva were playing with Dressy Bessy.

Alice-like, Bessy had her foot out the door of a small house.

Akiva pulled.

There was a tearing sound.

It made me sad to put Bessy in the trash.

We aren’t all in these photos. Notably missing are Cate, who did not attend, and myself, who was behind the camera. Almost entirely but not quite missing is Ari, who you can see in the background of a photo, waiting for an excruciating kiss to end. Dan read books, Martin grew facial hair, Mom cooked everything, Dad made mom happy, Akiva and Iris were cute, and I took a few photos. Having all these people visit my teeny-tiny house made me quite happy.

Uncle Dan reads to Akiva & Iris.

Akiva tries to compete with his mother for memorable Thanksgiving photos.

Unclear on the concept: knife.

Formats of roundness.

Mmmm. Eyelashes. I mean, turkey wing.

Mmmm. Mustache.

My father & my brother.

My mother.

Magical hands.

Amen.

What do you do when your best friend moves away forever?

What do you do?

What do you do?

He swings high—

and I swing low—

I’ll always love my friend— my friend—

I’ll always love my friend— you know—

We have always run here holding hands

since we first learned to run.

Excepting the part with the puddle.

What do you do?

On your marks—

get set—

You go first!

Will I ever see Joshua again?

What do you do?

Akiva calls him Zha-Zha and loves him too.

RUN

RUN

RUN

I will always run to you.

Iris saw this old blog post and decided it was time to do it again.

To whomever left the great bouquet of parsley in the garden—

thank you.

We heard some engine sound from far across the field

and went to see

and saw

a tractor, red, turning soil into silk

tilling long, slow rows and turning long, slow turns

and with each turn the garden turned from crumpled earth to silk.

And there before the tractor was

the parsley.

A great mound of green—

a beacon green amidst a sea of soil.

And I imagined rabbits

dancing

holding hands in the light of last Sunday’s round orange moon

praising parsley sacred as the cows of India—

so sacred it should go untouched all through the frosts

and through the snows of winter.

Untouched—

but then there was that tractor, turning

plowing slow rows, slow.

And so I stepped into, onto, unto the unturned earth

and took

your parsley (sacred parsley)

just before the tractor turned its turn

to mow.

So.

If you would like one last bite of this year’s parsley—

sacred parsley—

sacred as the cows of India—

parsley praised by

rabbits far and wide—

please, do come visit. 

We have some in our fridge.

We shall be eating it

and feeding it to friends

and to family

and to rabbits who dance

by the light of the hunter’s moon.

This museum, so close, is one of the things that makes our location in Shelburne so amazing.

Someday, there will be a last visit for ever and ever.

I hope this was not it.